First you scare them, then you offer them your false hope. It’s disgusting. But it works. And now the politicians, familiar with the power of fear, have bought your potion wholesale.
It’s about what happens when gullibility and fear meet greed and power.
What people do for power. How they’re willing to mutilate themselves, physically, intellectually, morally, for power and position.
Thus human courts acquit the strong, And doom the weak, as therefore wrong.
Dreadful deeds were obvious. The divine was often harder to see.
There was nothing right or good in dying for your country. A necessity, sometimes, yes. But always a tragedy. Not an aspiration.
The trick wasn’t necessarily having less fear, it was finding more courage.
But then, Armand Gamache thought, where else would you find darkness but right up against the light? What greater triumph for evil than to ruin a garden?
I’m sorry.’ ‘I was wrong.’ ‘I don’t know.’” As he listed them, Chief Inspector Gamache raised a finger, until his palm was open. “’I need help.
Professor Robinson was revealing, not creating, the anger. The fear. And yes, perhaps even the cowardice they kept hidden away. She was like some genetic mutation awakening illnesses that would have normally lain dormant.
Each day they tracked down killers. Each day they put their own lives on the line. And in return they were scapegoated. Chained to the ground, food for politicians looking for reelection.
It would be natural for some to feel that pressure and choose speed over quality. And try to hide it when something goes wrong. Not because they’re bad people, but because they’re people. That way lies tragedy.
Long dead and buried in another town My mother isn’t finished with me yet.
Armand stood up, still holding Stephen’s hand, and said, “It’s time. Let him go.” Then he sat back down, his legs weak. If this was the right thing to do, why did it feel so wrong? But no, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt wretched. Horrific. A nightmare. But sometimes “right” felt like that.
Jeez,” said Beauvoir. “The Inquisition. I didn’t expect that.” “No one does,” said Gamache.
But he knew he needn’t worry. This man was afraid of nothing. “I count my blessings.” He turned and saw Irene on the terrasse, as though he’d sensed her there. “We’re all blessed and we’re all blighted, Chief Inspector,” said Finney. “Every day each of us does our sums. The question is, what do we count?” The old man brought his hand to his head and removed his hat, offering it to Gamache.
Go now to your dwelling place to enter into the days of your togetherness. And may your days be good and long upon the earth.
And now here is my secret, a very simple secret. It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.
He knew in his heart that anything that offered such peace had great value.
At this discovery Matthew Croft’s legs gave way and he sank to the cold concrete floor, to a place no rhyming verse existed. He had finally been hurt beyond poetry.